


Dreaming

by trivialsins



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anders (Dragon Age) Positive, Anders/Dorian Pavus-Implied, Canonical Character Death, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Anders/Karl Thekla, Past Anders/Karl Thekla, Post-Canon, Post-Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trivialsins/pseuds/trivialsins
Summary: Anders mourns the death of Karl Thekla in dreams.
Relationships: Anders/Dorian Pavus
Kudos: 10





	Dreaming

Anders’ hands were trembling. He dropped the dagger. “Why do I keep dreaming this? Why do I have to do this over and over? What is the point?”

“I do not know. It is finished; they all died that day. Your anger and pain overwhelmed me.” Justice crouched and touched Karl’s face gently, closing his eyes. “I would like to forget.”

“I will never forget this. I will never forgive this.” Anders angrily wiped the tears from his eyes. “Never.”

“You tire of hating them, yet you hate them still.” The spirit stood and sheathed his sword. He raised his hand and swept the dream away.

***

“Every time you dream it, the pain becomes less.” Justice crouched, kneeling, and touched Karl Thekla’s face gently, shutting the mage’s eyes. “Perhaps, in time, I could learn how to do it too.”

“It doesn’t feel less. It feels the same.” Anders gasped; his breath was a sob. He rubbed his eyes with his palms.

***

Karl ran a hand through his thick dark hair, frustrated. Anders stared; the way Karl’s hair glinted in the light drove all thought from his mind.

Karl noticed Anders gawping, and winked slyly, smiling. Like the stone of the tower, his eyes were gray, but beautiful. Karl heaved an exaggerated sigh, blotted the puddle of ink on their ruined work, and flipped the pages in the book they were copying back to the beginning.

Head Enchanter Irving put them back in the kitchens after that.

“Your fault,” Anders repeated, but the words sounded hollow and distant, like he wasn’t saying them at all. The light faded.

There were red banners embossed with a white sun, and the carpets were red with gold edging. Karl looked at him from the floor, eyes vacant; the wound, a searing sunburst brand, was still fresh and red on his forehead. The Templar leaned against a pillar, watching, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“Your fault,” Anders’ voice was hoarse with unshed tears; his eyes stung. “You should have paid attention.”

There was blood everywhere. Blood spread from Karl’s crumpled body; it spread from all the bodies, except the unmoving shadows of Hawke and his friends. It dyed the carpet a deeper red and stained the gray stone. The Templar stood next to him, more like a ghost now, his armor golden. His sword dripped blood.

Anders’ dagger slipped from his nerveless fingers.

“Every time you dream it, the pain lessens.” Justice stared down at the bodies.

***

They were taking notes, laboriously copying the formulas for potions into their grimoires. White sunlight streamed through the library’s solitary, barred window. During the day they usually had to help the Tranquil in the kitchens; they were lucky to be able to do this work in the afternoon instead of at night by dim candlelight. It was good to finally have a friend, someone to sit shoulder to shoulder with at a desk in the ugly, gloomy library. He looked up and giggled when the older boy touched his knee, and shushed Karl, grinning; they had to be quiet, they had to work.

There was a Templar nearby, standing guard at the end of the nearest bookcase, watching over them. He was fully armored, his face hidden by a great helm, and his hands rested on the pommel of a bared longsword, but he was one of the good ones; they were safe.

Karl wiggled in his seat in the middle of a pen stroke, giggling and nudging him, and then his quill cracked, and a puddle of ink spread over his work, ruining it. Anders stifled a laugh. “Your fault; serves you right! You should have paid attention.”

He stared when Karl ran a hand through his thick dark hair in frustration. Karl noticed Anders gawping, and winked slyly, smiling. He heaved an exaggerated sigh, blotted the ink, and flipped the pages in the book they were copying back to the beginning.

The world froze; in the distance there was the sound like the tolling of a great bell. Although it was deep and pure, it was a warning; the world was breaking.

“No!” Anders jerked to his feet. He was his taller, older self, wearing his threadbare tunic and ragged coat. “I don’t want to do this again, don’t make me!”

Karl was still and quiet. His hair was graying, and he was standing. The bookshelves were fading. The cold gray of Kinloch’s library was warm with golden light from gilded statues and hundreds of candles; there was stuff against the pure white walls, featureless and indistinct. Rich, gold-edged red carpet replaced somber flagstone, and the red spread, flowing outward, dulling the gold trim, puddling on the edges; he couldn’t stop it.

Bodies lay all around. The forms of his companions were shadows, and the golden Templar was standing next to him, blood dripping from his bared blade.

“I don’t want to be here!” The knife was in his hand.

There was seared sunburst brand still fresh and red at the edges on Karl’s forehead, and his beautiful gray eyes stared sightlessly at the statue of Andraste.

“Every time, you dream it.” Justice crouched, kneeling, his hand stretched out, reaching for Karl’s face.

His armor shone, growing brighter, too bright, radiant, like the sun. “But not this time.”

Everything turned gold.

A golden snake slithered; it opened fanged jaws wide, becoming giant, curling all around him, devouring the statues, the banners, the walls, until there was only Karl’s body on a patch of blood-red carpet. The ripple of its glittering scales as it passed was mesmerizing.

Dark arms snaked around Anders’ shoulders from behind, embracing him; hands with golden, jeweled rings crossed his chest, and then touched his arms, his shoulders, gently turning him, arms enveloping him, holding tight.

Anders hugged back, desperately, clutching at a silken tunic with too many buckles, his eyes brimming with tears.

“Amatus.” Soft brown eyes met his, filled with feeling; lips curved into a slight, sad smile. “It’s all right. You can cry.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work is posted elsewhere, it's my only contribution (so far) to a collection co-authored by me but written mostly by Midnightprelude, 'Anders in Wonderland'.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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